


Passive

by thesandworm



Category: Whiplash (2014)
Genre: Drug Use, Implied/Referenced Abuse, M/M, Suicide Attempt, no one dies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-16
Updated: 2015-04-16
Packaged: 2018-03-23 04:35:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,941
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3754765
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thesandworm/pseuds/thesandworm
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Andrew downs the rest of the bottle (not a lot, he thinks to himself, not enough) because his fear of dying has left and been replaced by a more present fear of living.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Passive

**Author's Note:**

> The experiences of Andrew are loosely based off a story my friend told me of when he took too much Oxycontin, so I hope it's relatively accurate. I wrote this in one day so apologies if there are any spelling/grammar mistakes also this is my first published fic so tell me how it is!

He feels like Fletcher always knew, somehow, because he just knew everything about him. When he downs the pills he hopes he dies but doesn’t quite take enough to make it a guarantee because no matter how hard he tried his whole life he still can’t shake that little bit of cowardice he was raised with. But he still thinks _I hope I fucking die_ because he’s in Fletcher’s bathroom and thinks maybe it’ll fuck him up for a few days to find him cold and pale from choking on his own vomit. He wonders maybe if after the fact he’ll gather a bunch of terrified kids and play them a recording of one of his solos and cry and make up some bullshit story of how he was in a car crash (another one) but this time he was much luckier than the last and actually managed to die. And maybe someone will wonder why its so common for Fletcher’s favorite students to suffer from an early loss of life and maybe some other kid won't care because all he wants is for someone to think he’s good enough even though he won't admit it to himself or anyone else, and Fletchers the one who gave him the slightest hint of that even though it was probably all bullshit anyway. Andrew thinks this without the slightest hint of bitterness or pain because he thought it a thousand times before and was numb to the implications of it all, the implication that he was just some fucking kid that was gullible and malleable and lucky enough to be shaped into what Fletcher wanted him to be. And the implication that he was probably only kept around because he sucked Fletchers dick and he did it so often because he knew that was the only thing that kept him around. His playing is just an afterthought, he thinks, because by now it was expected of him to do the best. And he thinks maybe the implication doesn’t matter because he’d be in a worse place if Fletcher hadn’t dragged him out of his hole in the ground where he’d be destined to end up like his dad and every other worthless fuck and waste of air in this world, surrounded by people he hates and people who think they're better than him even though they're still made of the same shit and wasting the same amount of space.

He takes a few more pills and realizes that tears are running down his face but he doesn’t remember when they started because he feels so perfect in this moment and he doesn’t want it to end because he’s genuinely afraid, terrified of the euphoric pleasure coming to an end and going back to his life just like he used to be terrified of burning in hell when he was a kid before he knew any better, like he was terrified and maybe is still terrified of being forgotten and buried under the names of his betters. He thinks the fear is almost like those things but a million times worse because he feels rapturous, blissful, and thinks that maybe saints feel like this when they're welcomed under the arms of God and feel the warm rays of heaven's light (only if the stories they tell are true, but he doesn't bother wondering if they are because he stopped worrying about that a long time ago.) He downs the rest of the bottle (not a lot, he thinks to himself, not enough) because the fear of dying has left and been replaced by a more present fear of living.

He sees his own body now, sweating and hunched over the toilet, sees tears run down his face but doesn't feel them, and laughs because he looks so pathetic from the outside, and understands why Fletcher berates him so much. And for some reason, when he wonders just why he’s floating above his own body, the words “slow-release heroin” echo throughout his brain and bounce off the walls of his skull until it itches and he shakes his head to make it leave. And that itch reminds him of the itch he feels whenever Fletcher looks at him with disapproval in his eyes and he thinks _I really hope I die_ because this is the best death he could imagine. He wonders if Fletcher will give him that look when he finds him dead and rotting on the floor, one final glare and one final slap to the face or maybe a punch or kick to the gut like when he does something Fletcher really doesn’t like.

He wonders if Fletcher saw Sean Casey hanging from his ceiling and thinks maybe he helped him tie the rope.

As he feels himself floating through the ceiling he feels a little guilty because he should really be thinking of his dad in his final moments, maybe appreciating the hard work he went through to raise him by himself or how much he loves him (or how much a decent person should love him) but it makes him sick to think of his dad in any context nowadays, probably because it makes him think of how they never talk to each other because he disapproves of his closeness to Fletcher (he wonders what his dad would do if he figured out how close they really were) and how they never talk to each other because Andrew didn’t want him to find out about the drugs he takes and it makes him think of the last time he had a conversation with his dad, when he told him he would prefer an early death to a life like his. He laughs because he said he would die at age 30 but he didn’t hit that number yet (his estimate was a little off).

Then his breath hitches and he’s pulled back to his body. When his brain wanders off again he realizes he stopped breathing and inhales with a start the second he runs out of oxygen because he can feel his veins starving for anything. He realizes that he has to force himself to breathe, can’t think about anything else as he wheezes, and curses because he wants his last thoughts to be maybe something poetic or maybe some revelation that makes sense of the life that he’s fucked over but he cant _not_ let himself breathe, and before he can think on this too long he’s all carbon dioxide and inhales deeply, his breath a loud rattling croak and his exhale a hiss. He inhales with a loud rasp again and then chokes out a loud and bitter laugh that turns to a cough because, fuck, he can’t even die the way he wants to. As he inhales again he thinks it sounds like breathing should hurt him, it sounds painful and scratchy, like nails on a chalkboard, like the way someone with lung cancer would breathe when theyre lying in a hospital bed surrounded by loved ones, but he supposed the painkillers were good at their job because he was numb to every feeling but euphoria. He inhales loudly again, his muscles struggling to keep up the hard work, and then exhales a laugh like a maniac again, realizing that the painkillers are killing him, laughing because he is a pain and his life is a pain and theyre just doing their job. In the back of his mind he hears an angry voice echo but can’t make out the words. Instead of a reply he breathes as deep as he can and exhales another wheezing laugh.

“Andrew!”

The voice rattles to the front of his mind when he hears the handle of the locked door shake and he realizes that its Fletcher.

“Fuck you.” He spits out with the last of his breath, less at him and more at the world because fuck everything, he’s supposed to be dead when Fletcher finds him, hes supposed to be cold and smelly and rotting and maybe even seeping through the tiles enough to cause a stain before he’s probably dragged out by some paramedic or some police officer because Fletcher didn’t care enough to touch him himself. And then he inhales with a rasp before he can pass out because he’s still prolonging his death for some reason.

“You piece of shit junkie, _what did you do_?”

As Fletcher says this and bangs on the door with all of his force he laughs, laughs and laughs and laughs, and chokes on his dry throat and inhales and then laughs some more, because this was supposed to be quiet and poetic and peaceful but instead he’s sweaty and draped over the piss stained toilet and he thinks that he really must look like a piece of shit. He thinks, Fletcher is right again because of course he is, he’s always right and always justified and Andrew is weak and worthless and just _wrong_ , always trying to be something he wasn’t meant to be and fucking everything up, so he inhales like nails on a chalkboard one more time just so he can scream _FUCK YOU_ as Fletcher pounds on the door.

 _“Open the fucking door._ ”

He realizes Fletcher sounds distressed and panicked and no matter how hard he tries he can’t stop laughing. When he runs out of breath this time he doesn’t inhale because he keeps laughing, choking and twitching till his voice dies down and he just doesn’t feel like making himself breathe (finally). He’s floating up again and he hears the door rattling even more, hears Fletcher cursing and calling him worthless and ungrateful, saying _this is why no one fucking cares about you anymore_ and Andrew agrees full heartedly. Then he hears the crack of wood breaking and, strangely enough, can feel splinters hit his face before Fletcher hits him like a brick wall as his eyelids start to flutter shut. His brain barely registers a pound against his chest but his muscles must have because his eyes shoot open as he inhales with a wheeze. The moment he meets Fletcher’s panicked eyes he screams.

”No, no _no no_ ,” He screams as loud as he can with a throat that barely works, trying to get away from him but realizing _my arms aren’t working_ and he screams again, wheezes and screams.

“Let me fucking die,” he tells him, words slurring together. “My arms aren’t working, my arms can’t move, _fuck_ , no _no no no_ , let me _die,_ ” he wheezes and wonders if Fletcher can understand him because he can’t even tell if the words are coming out the way he wants them to. And then he wonders, _am I afraid_? because panic has come to him now and then he realizes he’s not sure if he wants to die but he sure as hell  doesn’t want to live without his arms working because then he wouldn’t be worth anything to anyone, nothing at all or maybe even less than nothing. He inhales.

“I’m scared, Fletcher, I'm so fucking scared.” He feels hands on his face but closes his eyes and pleads with God to let him die in this moment.

“You're not fucking dying.” Fletcher replies and Andrew wonders if he’s God. A hand goes down his throat and he screams as he gags, tries to scream _no no no, let me die_ , but he’s throwing up onto himself and onto God and his bathroom, his throat fucking burns and the smell of bile overwhelms him and he doesn't feel good anymore. The words JUST LET ME DIE are burned into the forefront of his mind and he tries to inhale so he can scream this at God but his hand is still there and he’s lying there frozen still, his body unable to move no matter how hard he tries. Then he gets to the point where he’s dry heaving, gagging but nothing coming out, and the hand is gone, and he wheezes just so he can choke out “Let me die. Let me die.” He repeats this when he hears the shower turn on, repeats this when the cold water hits him, repeats this until he’s breathing normally again, repeats and repeats and repeats till his voice is raw and everything is just too much.

 

-

 

As soon as he wakes he shoots his head up and moves his arms in front of him. He turns them palms facing upwards, moves his fingers, and inspects each and every scar and blister. When he’s satisfied that they're working and his own a feeling of relief comes over him, and he sets them down again. Then he realizes how he feels; like complete and utter shit. His own breathing is audible to his ears and every inhale burns, his head is pounding and his muscles are weak and every move brings a shooting pain. Then he realizes that Fletcher is sitting near him and thinks for a moment that they're in hell together, that he really was right when he was a kid, and that hell is even worse than he could have imagined. Then he realizes he’s not, he’s in a hospital bed, and figures that he’s always thought that Fletcher would outlive him by decades anyway, and probably would end up being one of those grumpy old fucks that lives till he’s 100 and no one knows why, surviving on pure rage and testosterone, mentoring skinny little sweaty undersexed kids until he’s walking with a cane and those kids are as dead as Andrew and he’s moved on to new ones. He laughs and wonders if he’ll keep fucking his prospects as hard as he fucks Andrew even when he’s at the point of needing a hip replacement and taking laxatives.

He wonders if Fletcher fucked Sean Casey too, and then he wonders if that name will ever leave him.

“You’re pathetic.” Fletcher says to him. Andrew doesn’t reply because thats what he’s been telling himself this entire time and expects something like that to come from Fletcher. He only looks at him.

“You almost die and all you can do is laugh. You’re a mess.” He tells him and he can tell that Fletcher is really mad, so mad that he doesn’t raise his voice, he doesn’t curse. Maybe its less anger, he thinks, and more disappointment. And then Andrew remembers what Fletcher told him the first night they fucked, when he leaned into his ear and told him _You’re mine now_. And he realized that yeah, he might be his, and they might be just like Jones and Parker, but what happens when two people like them get exactly what they want anyway? He thinks, _I’m just like Parker, just a few years early_ , and doesn’t answer the question because he already knows the answer.

“I’m your fucking mess.” He finally says, and laughs, and it's the most sincere thing he’s ever felt because he might’ve fucked up his own life but at least he fucked up Fletcher’s too. Then Fletcher gets up and walks next to his bed and meets his eyes, grabs his jaw in his hand, not harshly but not delicately either, and simply stares at him. Andrew meets his cold blue stare and sees that he looks tired. He realizes he’s never seen Fletcher look tired before and his smile is gone. And he curses in his mind because as quick as he was to laugh he’s just as quick to cry, and here it comes, that single fucking tear running down his cheek except this time he actually felt it. He thinks that Fletcher knows him too well because all it takes is a look to get him to cry now. His hand leaves his face, then, and Fletcher turns away from him, his arms crossed. It’s too quiet and Andrew wants to break the silence.

“You always knew.” He said then, because of course he fucking knew, they’ve fucked when he was high before and he’s played for him while he was high before and when he’s stupid enough to bring his pills to Fletcher’s apartment they’re always gone the next day.

“Of course I fucking knew.” Fletcher brings his hand to his face and rubs his brow and Andrew thinks that maybe they’re turning into the same person. He turns around.

“Andrew, you’re done. You’re fucking done with that.”

He doesn’t say anything.

“It’s gone. All of it.”

He meets his eyes.

“I can get more, you know.” Andrew tells him, not really threatening him, just letting him know, because he doesn't really trust himself not to get more.

“I won’t _let you_ get more.” Fletcher tells him and his voice is dark and threatening and Andrew believes him, to some extent. He looks away from Fletcher to rest his head on the pillow because the strain of keeping it up is hurting his neck and he’s tired of pain for the time being. He hears Fletcher’s measured footsteps approach the bed and feels a hand on his shoulder. It squeezes before its gone and then Fletcher walks out the door without a word and he’s alone, which is a million times worse than before. Without Fletcher he was just some pathetic kid that wanted to die but with Fletcher he knew that he had someone to pull him up, make him something better than he knew he was meant to be. He realizes that if he’s dead he won't have Fletcher and thinks maybe he’ll stop. He thinks that maybe for Fletcher, he’ll try, because he’s tired of pain for the time being.

 

 

 


End file.
